


and yet,

by lokh



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokh/pseuds/lokh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s one thing to murder a child to play your game for you and another entirely to have that same child your friend. it borders on pathetic, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and yet,

He’s just a child, you tell yourself, looking down at the group beside Hachiko.

Hanekoma smiles, knowingly, but you graciously turn a blind eye.

You’re a hypocrite, probably, for pretending to care about such a trivial thing after all you’ve put him through, but it’s one thing to murder a child to play your game for you and another entirely to have that same child your _friend._ It borders on pathetic, really.

(Then again, you may already be. The ancient Composer of Shibuya, trusted by no one save for a 15 year old and Mr. H, and even the latter at times is dubious.)

He’s just a child, you tell yourself again, phasing out of the RG entirely. He has the rest of his mortal life to live, one leading him away from events soon to seem a dream. You can no longer meddle in his affairs; you only hope he’ll soon forget _you_.

(Just like you hope you’ll forget the ache in your chest, this convoluted conglomeration of conflicting feelings that tether you to him.

You really are pathetic.)

 

 

 

He is no longer a child, but that doesn’t give you the right to meddle in his affairs.

And you haven’t been. You are still the Composer of Shibuya, and with the city still standing, you are once more buried in its music, plunging your hands into dissonant chords and pulling them taut. It’s not quite as jarring as others may presume it to be when the errors in the notes turn out to be errors you put there yourself, a note in the wrong key, a chord in minor and a forgotten flat.

(You sometimes wonder if you should have done away with Shibuya after all, if only to lessen the work you must do. Hanekoma only shakes his head.)

News travelled fast, after those three weeks. You were no longer just the Composer of Shibuya; you were also the Composer of a city you tried to destroy. Trust is hard to build, grievances not so easily forgiven.

There were many strings to be pulled.

You couldn’t afford to watch over him.

You can’t afford to remember.

(If Hanekoma knows about that ridiculous phone you still keep, filled with candid photos of days long gone, he says nothing. Above all, you despise pity.)

If he knows what’s good for him, he’d know he couldn’t afford to remember you, either. To him now, you are surely nothing but a figment of a fever dream.

(Then again, grievances aren’t so easily forgiven.)

There’s no reason for him to remember you, much less for him to still recognize you. You should easily be able to say the same for yourself. Though you can no longer say that he is merely a child, he is still a once-pawn that has little to do with you and your work so long as he lives (and even after, you will admit that it is a cruel thing to meddle once more upon his death). If anything, he’s nothing but a distraction at this point, your continued attention a source of vulnerability. Soon enough, you’ll be dethroned for _real_ , and won’t that be the kicker?

And yet.

You stand at Hachiko, toned down enough to be physical in the RG, enough to seem even slightly closer to your true age. Here, in particular, perhaps, because of a sick sense of humour. You don’t like to think of yourself as hopeful. (You do think that he should be grateful you allowed him his Udagawa. If nothing else, you can give him this small piece of Shibuya.)

He’s leaving the station, phone in hand and eyes lazily wandering. Three years have changed him in a way they haven’t changed you, a maturation indicating mortality you haven’t known for years; frame no longer so ill-fit, he’s still all angles and sharp lines in a way no longer so boyish. His favoured brand hasn’t changed, of that much you can be certain, but he seems more mellow, now, rhythm still an enigmatic syncopation but tempo slowed and steady.

His bright hair tied back, somehow his head still looks lacking, and the headphones you remember so well no longer there. His hands reach up, coming up against his face, and for a moment, you think he must be doing so out of habit, a grasp at a defence now obsolete, but his fingers instead slide, in a motion too smooth to be anything but habitual, to pull at his earlobe, pressing against a small earring lain there. It’s a habit you’ve never seen on him before, a single moment revealing years of difference between you, and you – you huff, through your nose, and stop yourself from tapping against your bicep. There’s no use getting yourself all worked up for no good reason.

(And yet you can’t help but feel irrationally, childishly petulant at the singing Shibuya, stealing knowledge from you and distracting you.

Though, without her, you would never have met Neku.)

He is no longer a child, you think, as he stops and looks, as though watching for someone. He smiles in a way no longer so self-conscious, no longer swimming in secrecy, and his shoulders sit that much straighter. He’s changed, grown, without your interference; you won’t step in now.

(The bitter thoughts that it was _you_ that made him change sound like a chorus of righteous divinity. It changes nothing.)

It’s ironic, then, that all this would only be possible had he forgotten you, too. How else could it be? Neku may be resilient, adaptable, unpredictable – yet at best, his memories must be hazy, like the moment his last breath stole from his lungs. Just as he said; things cannot be so easily forgiven, but time erodes memory until all that’s left is an impression of the emotions it inflicted, details lost and obscured.

Humans cannot cope any other way. Things must be sacrificed in order to be gained. His memories of you are but a small price to pay. He would not recognize you either way, your appearance different in the same way his is still the same.

You are not a child, either.

You should turn and leave, leave the RG once more. You should allow that dull ache to dissipate once and for all, return to fine-tuning Shibuya and giving lives an encore. You should set aside your pride and resist the hold of hope once more.

And yet.

“Josh?”


End file.
